The hum of the machine is the only thing keeping me going. That sharp, steady whine drowns out the noise in my mind, the ache in my chest, and the way Maverick’s voice still echoes when I close my eyes.
This was never fucking fake.
I wipe away a bead of ink, lean closer, and guide the needle along the curve of the phoenix’s wing. My hand remains steady and precise, with every line crisp against my client’s pale skin. If there’s one place I don’t fall apart, it’s here.
But my chest still throbs.
The door jingles open, and June breezes in, jangling keys in one hand and an iced coffee in the other. “Afternoon,”she says, kicking the door closed with her boot. “Whole damn city’s at the stadium. Even the coffee shop was dead. I think we might be the only people not wearing green and screaming right now.”
I hum, not looking up. “Means no walk-ins.”
She laughs, dropping her bag behind the counter. “Bad for business, depending on how you look at it. But hey, gives me time to catch up on paperwork.”
I don’t respond because my stomach is already twisting. I know where this is heading before I hear the click of the remote.
A second later, the shop is filled with sound—thunderous and electric. The roar of a stadium crowd blares through the speakers, louder than the machine in my hand.
My pulse spikes.
On the TV mounted in the corner, the screen floods with green and white, fans packed shoulder-to-shoulder, faces painted, foam fingers waving. The announcer’s voice booms, deep and excited.
“Welcome to game day, folks. Tonight, the Tennessee Mustangs compete against their longtime rivals, the Kentucky Daredevils. All eyes, as always, are on star quarterback Maverick Hayes.”
My chest lurches, and my breath catches sharply in my throat.
My foot jerks off the pedal, cutting the needle mid-line. The sudden silence is deafening. My client flinches, craning their neck to look at me.
“Sorry,” I mutter quickly, forcing my voice to stay even. I set the gun down, peel away the wipe, and gently clean the half-finished line. “Hand cramped.”
But my eyes betray me, flickering up to the TV.
And there he is.
Helmet tucked under his arm, golden hair damp with sweat under the stadium lights. Black paint smeared below his eyes, his jaw clenched hard enough to crack. He’s jogging out of the tunnel, his broad shoulders dominating the camera shot as if he owns the field.
Except… he doesn’t look like him.
Not the Maverick who grins like an idiot. Not the one who teases me until I want to scream. Not the one who kissed me like I was air after drowning.
His eyes are hollow, red-rimmed and dark with something heavy. The same way he looked in the kitchen—like he hadn’t slept in days, like everything he ever wanted had slipped right through his fingers.
Because it did.
Because ofme.
I focus back onto my client, dragging the line across the phoenix’s feathers, anything to drown out my thoughts. Anything to drownhimout.
But I can still hear the announcer’s voice, loud and giddy through the shop. “Hayes has carried the Mustangs all season, but tonight will test everything; his leadership, his focus, his heart.”
My chest twists painfully.
I keep working, shading in the wing, my hands steady even as my vision blurs. Because if I don’t, if I stop for even a second, I’ll turn around, watch that screen, and admit what I already know.
Instead, I hide in the only way I know how to survive, through ink, needles, and silence, while he steps onto the field appearing devastated.
The buzz of the tattoo machine fills the shop, steady and high-pitched, vibrating through my fingers. It should be comforting, the sound that always keeps me grounded, buttoday it’s not enough. Not when the roar of the crowd booms over it every few seconds, spilling from the TV June turned on an hour ago.
I’ve tried to keep my head down, eyes on the phoenix rising across my client’s arm, with each black line sharp and precise. But I can’t shut out the game no matter how hard I try. Every time the announcer shouts his name, every time the camera focuses on number seven in green and white, my chest lurches.
